


Bloom

by therewithasmile



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dorky Soul, F/M, Fluff, Humor, POV Male Character, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewithasmile/pseuds/therewithasmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh out-of-college graduate Soul Evans is having a hard time pursuing a stable career in music. Desperate and homeless, he decided to move in with his best friend, Black Star, and to try his luck in a dingy record store as the cashier. He soon meets a beautiful woman with long, ash blonde hair and a peculiar interest in unpopular jazz artists and flowers. He also soon realizes that she’s not what she seems. And that he’s fallen hopelessly in love. </p><p>(Soul Eater Reverse BigBang 2016.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to tumblr user Mrsashketchum who came up with the idea and drew the beautiful art! You can find her art in the last chapter. 
> 
> Shout outs to Sandmancircus and Bendandcurl for the beta efforts!
> 
> This story is loosely based off the Taiwanese movie "Secret".

It was his twentieth day on the job when Soul saw her for the first time.

When Tsubaki had offered him the job, he didn’t really think twice. It fit his two requirements; it had to do with music, and also, not suck. His bar was set pretty low -- and yet, despite that, he hadn’t been employed until now.

He didn’t think the job was to be a _cashier_ at Death Records, an HMV knock-off boutique with a supply consisting of a few more vinyl records than average _._

It was his fault, in hindsight, for not checking exactly what he’d agreed to. _Desperation lead him to this_ , he’d constantly tell himself, like it would relieve the situation. But he needed money, he probably _was_ desperate, and his kind-of-shitty best friend, turned-shittier-roommate wasn’t much help either way. Soul undoubtedly loved Blackstar; but moving in with him was perhaps not the best choice. Then again, half of his life was comprised of “perhaps not the best” choices.

So when he noticed her in their dingy little record store, the fact that his eyes trailed after her _must’ve_ been a sign, a warning heeding him against another “perhaps not the best” choice on the horizon.

She seemed to drift aimlessly back and forth, indiscriminate. If there was one thing Soul had learned about most of the patrons of his niche store, it was that the customers -- the ones that actually browsed instead of loitered -- usually came because they were seeking something in particular. An obscure band, a dusty CD case, sometimes, to his horror, some tween looking to purchase the newest pop hit in its hipster vinyl form. They had a mission - in and out in never more than fifteen minutes. He’d ring them up, they might talk to him, he definitely wouldn’t respond with more than one word, and that would be that. Gone. Part of his paycheck. Back to tapping the desk.

This newcomer must’ve belonged in the other category. The ones who thought the store was intriguing, but found nothing that interested them enough to actually make a _purchase._ It certainly seemed so, for her emerald eyes scoured over various titles -- but not in any contemplative means. It was more like she was shopping for groceries; fast and surveying, before she’d flit away. Down another aisle she’d go, brushing past piles and piles of more CDs.

And then, about twenty minutes later, she approached the register. Soul scrambled upright, trying to shake the haze that had begun to cloud his vision, fingers hovering over the buttons to ring her up -- only for his eyes to dart down to her own hands. Empty.

_As he expected._

She brushed past his desk, not once glancing at him, humming a quiet tune under her breath. And as she passed, Soul can’t help but watch as the sun hit her creamy pale skin. It lit up facets in her emerald eyes, brought out the subtle shades of gold in her otherwise ashy-blonde tresses. It touched her pinkish lips, just slightly shimmering from gloss, a perfect plump.

The door chimed as it swung shut, and Soul let himself slump back down onto his desk.

And as he drummed his fingers against the desk, watching each digit flex and move against his pretend keyboard, hearing the rhythmic taps that couldn’t possibly emulate a piano, Soul realized that she was probably the most beautiful girl he’d never met.

* * *

She came in the next day, with the same gentle twin-chimes from the door, as if it were heralding her arrival. 

And then she was there the next day, and the day after that -- always at the same time. He’d begun to learn small, inconsequential things about her. For one, she had a serious case of Window Shopper Syndrome. Not once had she ever bought anything, and Soul wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about this fact. She would move from shelf to shelf, those emerald eyes flicking from one title to the next, before moving on. Yet he was always drawn to her. Her lithe form, ashy-silver hair streaming behind her, skirt bellowing in mesmerizing patterns as she moved. 

It only took an additional three days for him to realize that she only appeared during his shifts. Just the idea sent Soul’s heart to a nervous stutter -- embarrassment? Flattery? Either way, he had to fight the urge to smoothen his hair. Regardless of the cause, he’d begun to detect the flare of heat that would dash across his cheeks, starting as soon as those tinkling bells would precede her entrance. And it’d persist up until she left, empty handed, still humming that same, odd little tune, brushing so close that he swore if he reached out, just a little, his fingers would tangle in those ash-blonde tresses as she passed by.

The temptation had grown tenfold overtime.

And that was how it started, his infatuation with the nameless girl. It had gotten to the point that it felt like the _sun_ shone a little brighter when she walked in: that it was the sheer effect of her smile (itself a half-grin, a gentle upturn of her lips) that brightened his day. He probably had an issue, Soul thought dejectedly, for it was the first time he’d ever felt this way. It was like he’d developed some Pavlovian instinct - those two _damn_ tinkles of the doorbell and he’d feel his back straighten ever so slightly, his fingers go from a careless lazy to a _careful_ lazy, and his purposefully nonchalant gaze grow progressively shy as it trailed after her.

Recently, she'd been stopping frequently in the Jazz sector. _That’d_ interested him. And though the routine didn’t change, her recent presence in the blues and rhythm section was a new addition he could add to her growing list of quirks: her fondness for skirts, her affinity to the colour green, and the way her right heel bounced a little higher than her left in her step.

When Soul returned home, back to the backdrop of empty pizza boxes, crushed soda cans, and strewn cushions, he supposed he, too, followed a routine. He’d greet Blackstar, who was no doubt sprawled across their dingy couch, in the process of mangling another controller for the sake of the FPS gods. When asked, he’d mechanically reply his work was good, consider mentioning the nameless girl from his work, only to not bother -- and then he’d lock himself in his room, stare at his mirror, and think about how he’d greet her. Nonchalant? Observant? Maybe he could recommend some of the newer jazz records they’d gotten in stock. Would that be weird? Too thoughtful? Too creepy?

All he knew was that the occasional time her green eyes would lock onto his, his throat would dry. Then it was too late -- she’d blink, Soul _swore_ her lips would pull up ever-so-slightly, and then she’d whisk away, merely a finger-length away from his grasp.

And after all that, after his dinner, shower, and an hour or so with just him and his guitar, he’d lie awake on his bed, thinking. Music, mostly, but her, occasionally.

Her green eyes. Varied taste in music. Flowy skirts. Sun-warming smile.

_I’ll talk to her tomorrow._

_I’ll definitely talk to her tomorrow._

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

A week later he still hadn’t talked to her. 

Soul wasn’t sure how it happened. It wasn’t as if he were necessarily _happy_ about the circumstance. Small parts of him felt like a stalker, like some love-sick idiot who had _put_ himself into this situation. Longing gazes, drumming fingers, heavy sighs. All terrible cliches, he knew in hindsight.

A bigger part, however, was satisfied with it. He was fine simply admiring her from afar. She never seemed to notice, anyways.

Someone who _did_ notice, was Blackstar _-_ and it wasn’t long before he cornered Soul about it, halfway from taking a gratuitous bite of pizza.

“There’s a chick.”

Despite the flare of heat that streaked across his cheeks and the way his saliva somehow managed to rescind into the back of his mouth, Soul mechanically unhinged his jaw.

And then, from his right, somewhat incredulously, “I was right, you’re _blushing_.”

“Shut up,” Soul muttered.

“And in denial! _I was right!_ Spit it out, you _mongrel._ ”

Soul sighed, gazing at his entirely intact slice of pizza. The entire wedge seemed to sag in response, strings of cheese pulling apart to reveal the blushing red tomato sauce beneath it. _Damn it._ “I don’t really want anything-”

“- _Bullshit._ ” There it was, his roommate’s best shit-eating grin. And _damn_ , it was certainly unnerving being on the receiving end of it. He felt his blood boil underneath his veins in a mixture of embarrassment and contempt.

“ - I’m serious. She’s kinda short, not very in your face, but always looks at the jazz albums. Maybe she’s into jazz. She’s totally…” Soul faltered. There was a light creaking of chairs, the sound of wood scraping against the floor. To his surprise, his blue-haired roommate sat quite attentively across from him. His stomach felt hollow, awkward; the sudden attention Blackstar was giving him was a whole other level of unnerving _._ “Dude, what’s your deal?”

“You’re interested in a chick,” Blackstar said, with the same damn smile on his face. “I was starting to doubt you were even into them.”

_“Dude.”_

“I mean, all of those sex talks in college, and you never talked about your sexcapades-”

 _“- Dude!”_ And there it was, the signature raucous laughter that Soul had forgotten he was fond of. He probably should’ve been annoyed, but something about the sincerity of Blackstar’s amusement (not purposefully teasing, but genuine amusement) didn’t make him angry _._ By the time his best friend had finished making a show of wiping imaginary tears from his eyes, Soul sighed. “It’s different, okay? She’s pretty. And quiet. Kinda mysterious, too.”

Blackstar seemed to mull it over for a few minutes, before a smile spread on his lips. “And the problem being?”

Soul shifted in his chair. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to approach her -- that’s pretty dumb, huh?”

“I mean, yeah. It is.” Blackstar’s shoulders rose once, before falling heavily back down. “Man. Is that why I’ve been hearing you mumbling to yourself behind your door?”

Soul dragged his eyes to meet his, that strange mix of teasing yet dead-set seriousness still somewhat jarring to him. “You’re joking,” he deadpanned.

“Are _you_?”

Soul shook his head no.

Blackstar sighed. “Dude, this is why you try dating in highschool. I know, I know,” he said defensively, raising his hands in defeat. “Pizza is meant to be eaten, not thrown.” Soul lowered his ammo back onto its plate, but not before shooting his supposed best friend a glare.

They fell back into silence.

“You’re really into her.”

The pizza was looking _really_ appealing again.

“Like _into_ her.”

Soul gave the pizza slice one more rueful stare. “Yes, Blackstar. I am.”

“Then go for it.” He actually seemed sincere, and his tone made it sound so _easy_. “Talk to her. You’re a music guy, you could help her with a recommendation. It’ll be suave.”

“Suave,” Soul repeated incredulously.

“She’s into jazz shit, you’re into jazz shit. Micasa, sucasa.”

Soul snorted. “You were _just_ starting to make sense.”

Blackstar grinned. “Besides, you might as well go for it. Yolo and all that shit.”

“And _that’s_ when I stop paying attention.” Soul kicked the chair from underneath Blackstar, the latter yelping as he hit the floor. “Ass,” he added with a toothy, sincere, smile.

* * *

The twin tinkling of bells nearly had Soul jumping out of his skin, mainly because she was already _here_ , and normally no one else came in at this time.

However, what were usually flowing blonde and swishy skirts were instead straight black and highwaisted jeans. Of course it wouldn’t be _her,_ as she was already here, three rows over. Yet he straightened all the same, lifting his chin from his quickly numbing upturned palm. Suddenly feeling sheepish, he crushed the half scrawled paper in his hand. “Tsubaki, you’re early,” he greeted. 

His manager nodded. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing her chin at his right fist.

He chucked the paper into the bin. “Nothing.”

The look she gave him said that she didn’t quite believe him.

Either way, Tsubaki stepped around the counter, lifting a box Soul hadn’t noticed earlier onto it with a _thud._ Soul raised an eyebrow as she ripped through the tape bindings. She peeled back the cardboard, the clattering of CD cases more apparent now. “New shipment. I came in early to start putting them out, I keep _telling_ Hiro to do these in the morning.” She sighed, light and somehow weightless despite her clear annoyance.

“I can put these away, if you’d like,” he found himself saying.

Tsubaki gave him the second genuinely surprised expression since she’d entered the store.

“That would be helpful, thanks,” she said. It wasn’t until he dug his hands in and gathered a neat stack of CDs that she cut in again. “Is something up?”

God, was he _always_ this transparent?

The concern in Tsubaki’s eyes was heartfelt, even concerned _._ A sudden rush of guilt coursed through his system. Tsubaki was more than just his co-worker. Like Blackstar, she was his friend since before college and they cared about him. Besides, if Blackstar knew, then it wouldn’t be long before Tsubaki caught wind.

“I just-” Soul’s eyes locked to the back of the store, to the jazz section his entire body was itching to go to. But as he looked, there wasn’t a trace of blonde hair. He blinked, and even when his vision refocused, there was no sign of the mysterious girl.

Had he just imagined her being here?

Tsubaki was still waiting expectantly, an eyebrow half arched.

“- wanted to look through these CDs,” Soul finished, somewhat lamely.

“Take your time, then,” she said lightly. “You still have fifteen minutes until the end of your shift.”

And so they lapsed into silence, Soul’s hand absentmindedly flipping through each CD case, his eyes not registering the either elaborate or minimalistic album art clamped behind clear cases.

_Fuck it._

“How do I talk to girls?”

To Tsubaki’s credit, she didn’t laugh, didn’t even blink. Instead, she straightened, arms outstretched as she hummed lightly in thought. The moment may have lasted a second, or an eternity, before she finally turned to him.

“Just be yourself.”

_… how cliche._

Yet there was a knowing smile on her face, in a strange, omniscient way that reminded Soul of how observant Tsubaki was. He was, if anything, a little thankful, and in that moment, he remembered just how much his friends truly meant to him.

* * *

 _Just be yourself_  

Now, a few days later, that phrase seemed so much easier to handle in theory than in person. Soul sighed, picking at the new-yet-somehow-withering flower that Tsubaki had bestowed on the table. Maybe he simply liked _ogling_ her, her and her long legs and slender frame and pretty hair and big, green eyes. What if meeting her was different? God forbid she’d be like Liz, or Patti, who were both fine friends but certainly not _dateable._ Maybe he really liked being at a distance, maybe he prefered this, maybe he didn’t want to bother her, maybe she was busy enough without him, maybe --

“Dude. You’re hopeless.”

“You’re not allowed back here,” Soul said automatically. Blackstar guffawed, and to Soul’s horror, proceeded to do exactly what he shouldn’t _._ Ignoring the open side barely a foot away from him, his asshole roommate-slash-best-friend hopped up, butt first, onto the counter. Soul sighed again as Blackstar unceremoniously swung his legs over the other side.

“Chill dude, it’s ‘Baki.”

“She’s a _manager_ , not the _boss,_ ” Soul lectured, but he knew the whole argument was moot anyways. It was habit at this point, because on the rare chance that the owner _did_ walk in, maybe she’d hear him at least _try_ to stop his best friend. Before firing him.

Blackstar propped his elbows against the faded wood, chin nestled in the curve of his joined palms. “Nice legs.”

 _Tell me about it._ “Why are you _here?_ ” Soul tried. Blackstar shot him a glance, a small smirk already tugging at his lips.

“‘Cuz I gotta see what’s got you so hot and bothered. I get it - kinda.” He cocked his head to the side, almost dramatically, and Soul tried to ignore the way his best friend gave his crush a very obvious once-over. “Also, are you wearing cologne?”

The protests that this particular bottle was from his performance days - therefore this was him, _being himself, damn it_ \- died before Soul had a chance to form the adequate words. Instead, he flicked the table with two fingers, only managing to bring pain in his second digit.

The silence was more than enough for Blackstar, who slammed his fists down on the table. The few browsers startled - but not _her_ , who made her way through the aisles to stand unperturbed beside one of the patrons. Soul, on the other hand, leaped back. “You _are_. Holy shit, what’s the point if you don’t _talk_ to her?”

Soul shoved a hand against his roommate’s face, uncaring of the spit and teeth his palm knocked against. “ _Dude_!” He felt what was most likely a _sorry_ against his skin. He loosened his grip. “I was going to, _I swear,_ and then you hopped on the table.”

For a second, something like genuine remorse struck across his friend’s face. “Aw man, so I cockblocked?”

Soul shrugged, sighing again. “Kinda?”

And then, of all things, a _grin_ spread across Blackstar. Sure enough, the remorse (which he was _sure_ was genuine, unless his roommate suddenly acquired acting skills of any level) was replaced with that daunting smile. “Blackstar, don’t-”

But it was too late.

The blue-haired asshole-of-a-best-friend hopped the counter in one smooth glide, all but sprinting towards the aisle that _she_ , _oh God_ , was at. Soul’s heart quickened as his best friend _accelerated,_ barrelling through the aisle so fast he swore some of the stray labels not entirely glued down moved with him. The world slowed down as he watched Blackstar’s fingers extend, as if in slow motion, reaching and reaching….

For the girl beside the ash-blonde.

Soul couldn’t even find it within him to scream.

There was gesturing, pointing, probably his name -- at this point, Soul was sure he’d stopped functioning. Blue Screen of Death? He’d heard the term before, though at the time he’d found it ridiculous to say a _person_ was experiencing that.

Now it was happening to him.

Maybe, at the very least, he could write a song about this, as the girl who _wasn’t_ the ash-blonde that he’d been ogling the past few weeks, turned and gave him a confused wave.

Soul thunked his head against the rim of his desk.

 _This_ is why he hated his so called best friend.

The worst part was that he couldn’t even be mad. Not after he heard what sounded like an apology, some confusion, _‘nah, Soul wouldn’t look that way’,_ something that sounded very much like a slap, and then more shuffling. Honestly, he didn’t want to look. He’d rather the ground opened up, right now, and swallowed him whole.

That is, until a light tapping by his ear stopped him from thinking up other entirely impossible scenarios in which he could at least escape _this_ one.

Of all the things Soul thought he’d see when he looked up, the last he expected were her green eyes.

No, they were more like emerald - or maybe lime? - and _God,_ her face was cuter this close, in person, than he expected. Not that he’d been dreaming of her, or picturing her in his mind, but there were wrinkles under her eyes and dimples nestled into her cheeks. Her hair was several colours, if he looked closely: varying shades from what was definitely blonde to lighter tints.

She coughed into her fist.

“Soul?” Even her voice was cute.

She frowned.

Oh, he could _definitely_ write a song out of this.

 


	3. Chapter 3

And it was only after his fucking _phone_ went off, signalling the end of his shift, that he realized he’d been staring for too long.

Soul coughed, suddenly self conscious. Holy _shit._ His cheeks were hot and his palms were sweaty - when was the last time he’d ever felt this way? A cross between embarrassment, intrigue, mortification, and, to just make it even that much better, a pathetic flop of his heart, struck him all at once. She was still staring at him, ever patiently.

_God, think of something, anything, to say._

“How did you know my name?”

_Okay, anything but that._

Her eyebrows knitted upwards, her upper lip diminishing as she pursed them together. “Well, I mean, that other man said it. And it’s on your nametag.”

“Oh.” _Duh._

And then she leaned in, startling him, before he realized she was squinting at his nametag again. “Evans?”

“Yeah.”

She seemed to perk at that, something like a smile unfurling on her face. “Not very talkative, are you?”

He blinked. Was that an _insult_? He wasn’t quite sure, didn’t even know such a small girl could _be_ sassy. But then she tilted her head, thick strands of her blonde hair pooling on the table like a spilled liquid as she smiled.

“I’ve met another Evans. He’s quite similar to you.”  Her emerald eyes narrowed. “Actually, the resemblance is uncanny. Which album do you recommend?”

For the third time, his only reaction was to blink stupidly. As if in response, the mystery girl pointed at the two albums that were - somehow - on the table. How they got there, Soul wasn’t sure. He frowned, but the album art lessened the tension he held in his jaw. Jazz albums?   _Flowers for Albert_ by _David Murray_ and _Light on the Path_ by _Edward Wilkerson Jr._

He glanced at her. He didn’t take her for the typical quartet kind, but maybe he misjudged. Soul toyed with the cover of the first. “ _Flowers_ is more afro-cuban. _Light_ is more contemporary. It’s up to you after that.” Besides, he was the last person to be subject when it came down to personal taste. She nodded almost sagely at his words, the silence stretching to veer into the awkward territory. Soul coughed. “What’s changed this time? You’re actually purchasing?”

For a second, surprise streaked across her features. “You’ve noticed?”

“That you always come in and not buy anything? Yeah.”

Slowly, a smile crept its way onto her face. Full lipped and almost radiant, she positively _beamed_ at him before shrugging. “I admit it, I’m a bit of a window shopper. But I thought I would at least speak to you, Soul.”

And, like the idiot he was, his heart did a little flip flop at the admission. _Be yourself._ Doing so in regards to music was one thing, but small talk -- apparently not. He could only offer a half smile. “And you are?”

“Maka Albarn.” She held out a hand, and after a second’s hesitation, he grasped it. It was cold, her fingers so delicate they almost seemed brittle. He didn’t want to squeeze -- nor did he want her to think him weak, or God forbid, his hands to get clammy - and he couldn’t help but think that, for such brittle-seeming and dainty hands, she had a much stronger grip than he’d expected.

With another pathetic flop of his heart, she let go first. “So that man…”

“My roommate. And best friend,” Soul groaned. And he was just starting to forget the whole incident too. Maka gave a sympathetic grin.

“If it means anything, I’m sorry.”

“About him being my best friend? Or that he’s my roommate?”

Her grin grew a fraction wider. “Both?” And Soul couldn’t help it: a small chuckle escaped him. Her own laugh, complete with miniature shoulder trembles, was as equally charming as her personality.  After another moment of silence, Maka suddenly piped up, “By the way, which do you prefer?”

Soul shrugged. “The contemporary one, I guess. It’s got more interesting stuff in it.”

“Noted.” She gave him another smile, but didn’t move to purchase the record as he expected her to. Instead, she stood for a moment longer, shifting her weight from one foot to the next. The silence began to bother him as it did before, left to only the sound of his pounding ears and the unsteadiness of his heartrate. _Just be yourself._ Though he wasn’t one for small talk, he decided to just ask the question that’d been on his mind.

“So, _why_ haven’t you bought anything?”

Maka’s eyebrow rose so fast, Soul nearly thought they would’ve shot off her face if possible. Instead of answering, though, her lips twisted into what appeared to be an apologetic smile. And then she walked away, her soft footsteps fading out to louder ones - and of all people, the asshole-slash-roomie-slash-best friend rounded the corner. Blackstar caught Soul’s eye and sauntered over, much to the latter’s chagrin.

“Dude, sorry about earlier. Looked like the wrong girl. Also, had to take a piss.”

Soul sighed. “In the _employee’s_ bathroom?”

Blackstar _almost_ laughed, if it weren’t for the withering look Soul shot him. “Well, ‘Baki, remember?” And before Soul could bring up exactly _why_ that excuse literally meant nothing, he glanced at the two records still on his desk. “You still listen to jazz?”

“Of course I do. But these aren’t mine anyways,” Soul said as he finally pulled himself away from his desk. His limbs groaned in protest; he didn’t realize just how tightly he’d been holding his tension whilst talking to Maka. “She brought them over.”

“WHAT?” Blackstar nearly yelled, only silencing himself as Soul glared at him. In a notably quieter, yet no less enthusiastic voice, he whispered, “So it actually worked?”

“What?” The pathetic display replayed in Soul’s head, all up until the cringiest moment when his best friend tapped the wrong girl’s shoulder. Then again, who knows -- if Blackstar hadn’t done that, proper target hit or not, maybe Maka wouldn’t have come up to talk to him. “No - kind of? It’s hard to explain.”

“Well, my man, if it means you finally manned up and spoke to her, then I’m happy for you.” Once again, the sincerity in Blackstar’s voice was partially lost due to the enthusiastic thumbs up that followed his words. “You can thank me later! And you’re off shift now, right? Let’s get a burger.”

Soul paused, looking around. Yet again, she was gone, not a single trace of blonde hair to be found. He sighed resignedly. At least _he_ had the courtesy of going _around_ the table, not that Blackstar would ever realize that the display was a silent lecture to him. As Soul shrugged on a sweater, Blackstar’s voice interrupted yet again. “Dude, ‘Baki might kill you, you know. How did you murder that flower so quickly?”

Soul froze, one arm still halfway through its designated sleeve. _No way._ He had played with the plant earlier, but it was still alive; certainly he didn’t remove a single petal . Yet there it sat, a delicate ring of white around the brown stalk, a halo formed around the decayed plant.

“Shit.”

“Shit is right,” Blackstar muttered. And then he perked, in the same typical whiplash manner that was typical to him. “But we could replace it, I know where she bought it from.”

Relief flooded Soul’s system. Sometimes he _hated_ Blackstar as his roomie/best friend, today was not one of those days. “Thanks.”

“Yeah yeah, thank me later. Or you can treat me to ice cream.”

Today was definitely not one of those days.

Soul even bought him ice cream.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Of all the things Soul expected out of his first shift after finally meeting her, none of them included Maka approaching him first. Her strides were confident as she bounded up to him, green eyes sparkling as she planted her two feet on the ground. “Hey,” Maka said, as if it were completely normal.

Soul gawked -- he wasn’t exactly sure how he should react. “Hey,” he finally managed, and he winced internally at the hesitation that coloured his tone.

She gave a full lipped smile as she leaned against the counter. “Got any more recommendations?”

Soul blinked. Did she even end up purchasing the record? Now that he thought about it, yesterday was the first time he’d left after she did -- normally it was almost as if she made a point to leave before him, so that he’d watch as she came and went every day.

Asking her outright if she’d bought the album seemed almost rude, so he opted with the safer choice instead. “Are you looking for something similar to _Lights_?”

Soul found Maka particularly difficult to read, which wasn’t saying much, seeing as the people who surrounded him seemed to make a point of being the opposite. After a moment’s deliberation, she nodded. “It’s interesting, definitely new.”

“Well if you’re looking for new,” Soul said, “there’s some more contemporary and experimental jazz out there.”

And that was how their friendship began. It was odd for Soul, considering that only a few short weeks ago he thought she’d only really be the distant stranger, destined to be watched but never conversed with. There was something that made him think that maybe she _was_ interested (the thought set little jitters down his spine, but he opted to really _not_ think about it, or he may end up losing sleep over the implications), but sometimes he couldn’t tell. She was just very _different_ , almost as if she had stepped from a different time period. Certainly the more they talked, the more she seemed interested in classics equally to the newer stuff.

At some point, she began to bring him books.

He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he wasn’t really _into_ this kind of literature - or rather, literature in general. But as he flipped through some of the novels, Soul couldn’t place when exactly it was when he’d begun to _read_ them. Just a scene at a time, then realizing he had no context for the scene, and then he’d backtrack, then want to know what happened after, so he’d read and - oh _God_ , he was becoming a bookworm.

A fact he had to hide from Blackstar, who seemed to be getting increasingly suspicious of his activities. Yes, he’d return to his room and listen to music, only because he’d play it as background noise, and also to disguise the sound of pages turning.

Soul didn’t know when it began to feel like he was keeping some kind of secret _._ Maybe he was a bit embarrassed -- after that whole display with Blackstar and the fact that he’s been receiving books ( _gifts_ ) from her, that the next time she came around, he grabbed her wrist (still cold, but he hardly cared) and pulled her into a side room. For a second, she looked surprised, before a smile spread across her face. “The storage room?”

Soul tried to calm his pounding heart. He’d love to make excuses for this, or even outright deny the reason behind his actions. But it all was rooted by one factor. “Remember my best friend?”

“Slash roommate?”

“Unfortunately.” Soul shrugged. “He’s well, _loud_.”

Maka’s eyebrow raised, before a small chuckle escaped her lips. Soul could’ve _sworn_ it was like she lit up, like a small outline of light came from her laugh, like the dimly lit room glowed a bit brighter with her smile. _God shit fuck,_ he was so far gone.

“Noted,” she said, nodding sagely, thankfully playing along. She paused, before reaching into the small, vintage-looking book bag she had slung across her torso. She procured a few more records, handing them back with a gusto. “They were good. Thank you!”

Soul took them with both his hands. “If you liked that, you might like _CCC._ It’s really similar to the previous record. And it’s kinda similar to that tune you always hum.”

Something like surprise registered across Maka’s face, before it faded into a blush. “You noticed?” she whispered, almost to herself. But before Soul could dwell on it, she began to rummage around in her bag once more. “I also brought you another one of Evelina’s works. This one’s more romance. It’s actually kinda cheesy.”

Soul took it from her cold hands, almost a little too eagerly. The pages were slightly yellow and faded, the scent of musk and dampness emanating from the pages. “Thank you,” he murmured, almost sheepishly. There was her giggle again, soft, charming.

They stood in the cramped room for a few heartbeats longer. She was so _close_. He kept his eyes on hers, trying desperately not to look anywhere else -- especially not _down_. His heartbeat picked up at the thought, loud in his ears, and he wracked his brain for _something_ to say.

Thankfully, she spoke first. “There’s a piano in here?”

Of all things, that was one of the last that he expected to hear. Soul laughed. “Yeah, it’s out of tune though.”

“Oh.”

And they fell into silence again, the sound of his thudding heart erratic in his ears.

Soul dragged a hand through his hair. “So, um --”

“You should get back to your shift,” Maka said, equally as breathless.

“Yeah, right. Uh, you go first,” Soul said quickly. Maka flashed him another dazzling smile. She was so _close_ , if he just leaned down and forward, his lips would brush _something_ , hopefully her own. But before he had the chance to further dwell on the impulse, she wrenched the door open, flooding the dim room with artificial light. And then she was gone, the door shutting behind her with a click, and he was plunged back into darkness.

Soul sighed and aimlessly messed with the storage boxes, as if it would help him sift through his thoughts, or even better, calm his racing heart. Accomplishing neither, he finally admitted defeat and wrenched the door open, only to almost bump head-on with Tsubaki.

“Soul, I was looking for you!”

“I was going to go water the plants,” Soul said quickly, gesturing the pot beside him. Thankfully, the leaves of the small plant were browned, as if playing the part adequately.

Tsubaki’s eyebrows knotted up. “Even though the watering can is--”

“-- in the storage room.” Soul had half a mind to turn around and knock his head against the door. “I know, I … couldn’t find it.”

“Couldn’t find it…” Tsubaki repeated slowly. And then a smile flashed across her lips. “I could help you look!”

“That won’t be-” his manager wrenched the door open. “-necessary,” Soul finished fruitlessly. He counted silently to seven, and by the time he reached five he heard her triumphant _‘aha!’_. From the doorway protruded Tsubaki’s long arms, the bright blue watering can clenched in her grasp. Soul accepted it sheepishly. The rest of Tsubaki stepped from behind the blind spot, and she shut the door behind them. “Good. I’m worried the plants aren’t getting enough light anyways, they seem to be going faster. Could you help me move them closer to the window?”  

Soul shrugged again, wrapping his arms wordlessly around his scape-plant and lifting it with ease. Tsubaki, to his embarrassment, took one about twice the size equally effortlessly. As they plopped down the plants, Tsubaki straightened with a sigh. She sharply turned to him. “Also, Soul, it’s okay if you’re seeing someone, you know.”

Soul froze, watering can still dangling from his fingertips.

“I mean, it’d be nice if you could introduce us one day,” Tsubaki continued cheerfully. “But it’s really not that big of a deal.”

Soul could feel feet from his feet, his fingers turning numb. “I uh, have to fill the watering can,” he said lamely, waving the object in question vigorously.

“Okay,” Tsubaki said. “But honestly, if you wanted to change shifts or something, just let me know. And don’t make out in the supply room -- at least during your shift.”

“ _Getting water now,_ ” Soul said, trying and failing hard to quash his trembling heart. There was no reason to be this _embarrassed,_ but he _was._ He took two steps to the bathroom before pausing. “Also, thanks ‘Baki,” he muttered sheepishly.

The blood may have been pounding in his ears, but he was still able to make out her cheerful _You’re welcome!_

* * *

Soul slammed the door shut behind him. The piles of pizza boxes at this point had piled high, or was _modern art_ , as Blackstar had called it. Said person was draped over their couch upside down, legs against the backrest, blue hair dangerously close to becoming a much-needed mop.

“Hi,” Soul greeted as he kicked off his shoes.

“Hi yourself. Did she come by today?”

Soul tried to concentrate on the sounds of yet another controller being sacrificed, but the fierce snaps of the analogue sticks just made him pity the thing. “Who?”

“Soul Evans, you are _not_ an idiot,” Blackstar said as he mashed the buttons.

“Thanks for the confirmation,” Soul shot back as he tried to escape up the stairs. The sound of a controller being tossed aside only hastened his pace, but a surprisingly authoritative _hem hem_ froze him in his tracks.

“You’re gonna introduce us, right?” Blackstar said, leaning against the stairwell.

Soul blew out a sigh, watching a stray lock of white hair rise and fall with the motion. “Why both you _and_ Tsubaki?”

A half smile crept along Blackstar’s face. “Oh? In that case, let me rephrase, _when_ are you?”

“Don’t you have a video game you should be playing?”

Blackstar made a face. “Those noobs mean nothing compared to your love life.” Soul blinked. He wasn’t sure if that was a high compliment or very low insult. He shook himself out of it.

“I-I haven’t planned on it.”

Blackstar only jutted his chin forward. “So text her. Or call, if you want to be chivalrous.”

Soul was beginning to question whether Blackstar _had_ been sneaking into his room to read the small-yet-growing collection of books. And then realization dawned on him, embarrassment flaring somehow three times stronger than it had all day. “I don’t… have her number?” He ignored Blackstars indignant gasp. “No no, she comes in every work shift, so it’s not like I need to contact her all the time.”

Blackstar shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Wait, _every_ shift?”

“Yeah.” Soul shrugged.

A large grin spread across his best friend’s face. “Dude,” he said, whistling, giving Soul a good natured yet still painful punch on his nonexistent bicep. “She’s so _into_ you.”

“I guess.”

“And you’re so into her!” Blackstar pressed his hands together. “You gotta introduce us, bro.”

“I’ll think about it,” Soul said evasively, sliding his way up the stairs.

“Really?” Blackstar’s voice called from the bottom floor.

“No,” Soul shouted back before slamming another door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Ask him even _two_ months ago if he were a hopeless romantic, and Soul would’ve outright, blatantly, laughed. Guffawed. Doubled over and slapped his knee.

So why, of all things, did he have a _bouquet of orchids_ stashed underneath this desk?

It wasn’t the early nineteen hundreds -- he didn’t, _shouldn’t_ , have to court her. Yet, as far as Soul knew, she lacked a cellphone, and therefore a Tindr account, so he supposed he couldn’t quite get with her the _normal_ way.

After assuring Tsubaki that he didn’t need to leave his shift early (though he had, a couple times, to take a walk with Maka) and promising he’d water the plants before their leaves curled, Tsubaki had suggested it. “Based off her music tastes, and your strolls, she might appreciate the gesture,” was what Tsu had said, as if she’d known Maka forever.

Hence why he had a small bouquet sitting behind the counter.

Soul had also, somehow, ended up being early from his shift, another recent development that he would’ve laughed at a few weeks prior. The florist had been diligent, even excited, and the intricate bouquet she’d all but shoved him suited Maka, even if one of the orchids nearly went up his nose.

He’d just begun visualize the counter as a keyboard when the twin tinkle of bells had him bolting upright.

And there she was, in the same radiance as always. Maka gave him a beaming smile. “What, no hustle to the supply closet today?” she teased.

Soul shrugged, trying to ignore his beating heart. “No, I guess not.”

His shift suddenly seemed, in contrast, too short. He had no idea where the time went, but in between discussing the different strands of jazz (which turned into a mini lecture) and different literature movements (which, too, turned into a lecture), his phone finally beeped twice.

“End of your shift?” Soul nodded in response. “Great,” Maka said, pushing herself from the desk. “Shall we?”

His hand curled around the bouquet wrappings. His heart thudded erratically in his chest, triple the already increased tempo from their sustained conversation. Soul hoped there was an opportunity to give it to her during his shift, but the movies and the books lied; it never just conveniently came up. Hoping that Blackstar or Tsubaki didn’t come barging in, he finally swallowed down his nerves. He produced the flowers, handing them to her awkwardly.

Through shy eyes, Soul couldn’t help but notice the red creeping along her cheeks. “But I’m rubbish at taking care of plants,” Maka murmured. Soul couldn’t help it; he gave a half cough, half chuckled, at her response. “And these are _orchids._ ”

“So am I,” Soul said, gesturing the (fourth) white flower beside the cash, then the still-wilting plants that lined the sill. Maka gave a glance, her green eyes widening in what he could only describe as childlike wonder, before they lowered back to the bouquet in her hands.

“They’re beautiful,” she mumbled, leaning to get a sniff. “I’ll put them in water. Thank you,” she added sincerely. “This is something I didn’t think people still did.”

Soul gave a smile, making a mental note to thank Tsubaki later.

* * *

 

“Fun fact,” Maka said as she leaned on the counter. “This place used to be a music studio, years and years ago.”

“Yeah?”

“Like mid-nineteen hundreds yeah. This could be a historical site, you know,” Maka said good naturedly. “I’m sure the owners would be happy to know that it’s still music-related in the twenty first century.”

Soul laughed at that, letting his hand play with the back of hers as she pushed herself on her tip toes. “How are the orchids doing?”

“Dying,” Maka said ruefully. “But I’m trying, I promise.”

Soul cracked a smile. He couldn’t blame her. He knew _nothing_ about flowers prior to the purchase, but suddenly her outright shock at the orchids made sense. They were supposedly known to be hard to grow. If Soul had more confidence, he would’ve offered to look after them -- but seeing his track record, perhaps it was best that he didn’t.

She began to hum again, that same odd song that he’d heard so many times, even before they’d began to see each other. And then she stopped, turning to him. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you play?”

Soul blinked.

He hadn’t played in forever. Not since the last job rejection, because his own style was too harsh, too _different._ But looking at her innocent eyes, the way she stared so curiously at him, he felt the knee-jerk defiance deflate. “Yeah, a bit. Piano.”

Something like glee streaked across Maka’s face. “You should show me!”  

 _Oh no._ It was as if his greatest fear was realized -- the last thing Soul wanted was for Maka to hear him play. To go through the same rejection as he had, so many times before. However, this time it actually _mattered_ to him. He shook his head vehemently. “I’m definitely not playing on that out of tune piano. 

“In the storage room?” Maka frowned.

“Yeah. It’s so old, it’s probably _from_ that old music building.” Maka cracked a grin at that. Soul really liked her smile -- it was so radiant, like another glow of light surrounded her body with the very upturn of her lips. He was so smitten, and it wasn’t rare to imagine himself going one step further. To _taste_ those lips, to know how they felt against his, how her breath would hitch.

“Do you play?”

To just add to her brilliance, her cheeks dusted with the faintest of reds. “Oh, no.”

Soul leaned across the table. He was constantly learning new things about Maka -- for one, she wasn’t the best at lying. “You should show me sometime.”

The blush on her face only darkened. “Only if you show me first!” Maka said stubbornly. Soul couldn’t help but to laugh. Her eyes stayed on him, and for a second, something like melancholy flashed across her eyes.

And then his phone began to beep - almost obnoxiously - and they both jumped.

“Shall we?”

She didn’t have to say it twice; Soul had already hopped the counter, and prayed that Blackstar wasn’t anywhere nearby to give him shit for it.


	6. Chapter 6

 Soul was slaving over what to wear. He _never_ slaved over what to wear.

Maka had finally invited him over. He didn’t really know what that meant. Truth be told, he had never inquired about her family, if she lived alone, if there was anything _else_ that she’d planned.

The mere thought sent his heart to a fervent staccato, and he didn’t dare dwell on how all the thoughts kept him up at night. He tossed and turned, every time his vision dimmed he’d picture her, in her radiance, smiling. Sometimes dressed in her usually flowy skirts, sometimes _less_ , and each time he had moaned and shoved his second pillow as far into his face as he could.

But before any of that could even begin to be a reality, he still had to get through an entire shift. It wouldn’t be so bad, after all, Maka would probably be there, but at this point, even the fast shifts spent with her simply wouldn’t go fast enough.

Soul sucked in a large inhale, expelling it through his nose. Before he forgot, he snatched his little gift from the top of his dresser. And then he pushed open his door and half ran, half jumped down the stairs, past the growing _modern art_ , and out the door.

When he got in, he was surprised to see Tsubaki already inside. And she was on the phone, light creases in her forehead as she tapped a pen against the desk. Upon making eye contact, Tsu lowered the receiver into her shoulder. “Hey Soul, do you want to go water the plants? They’re looking a bit drab.”

He shrugged, plucking the can from the desk as his manager put the receiver back to her ear. If he wanted to, he probably could’ve eavesdropped, but judging by her harrowed expression, maybe it was best he didn’t pay attention. Instead, Soul watered each of the plants around the sills. Of all things, that little tune Maka always hummed played in his head, even as he moved from the window to the desk. By the time he’d finished watering the small white plant by the cash, Tsu had hung up with a sigh.

“You know the piano in the storage room?” She brought up just as Soul was about to turn around.

“Yeah?”

“The boss wants it gone,” Tsubaki said. “It’s taking too much space in there, and you know how cramped it is.”

Soul shrugged.

“The boss wants to dump it.”

 _That_ made Soul freeze in his tracks. “ _What?_ ”

“That’s what I said,” Tsubaki said. “It’s such a waste. I mean, it’s no Steinway, but I booked a consultation to see what the best solution is.”

Soul frowned. It may be an out of tune piano, but the thought of it being used for anything else --if it were to be a new prop to _drop_ or something -- made his musician blood run cold. “When?”

“I’m gonna slip out now and go to their office,” Tsubaki replied. “It’s about a half hour away, across town -- which is why I’m here now. I was filling out these forms on its condition. We’ll probably have to discuss, and then I’ll be back probably a few minutes before the end of your shift.”

“Okay,” Soul said slowly. He hadn’t had any formal attachment to the piano - after all, it sat in the store room, probably unplayed for _months_ , if not years. He knew it was said as a joke, but on the off chance that the piano _was_ from when the building had been a music one, then the thought of it being sent to the dumpster made him even more upset.

It still lingered, even after Tsubaki had bade him farewell, and Maka had mosied in at some point during his shift. Eventually, though, it faded to the recesses of his mind. Instead, Soul found himself engrossed in his usual conversations with Maka, flitting from topic to topic as they did, neither of them mentioning the fact that he was coming over as soon as his shift ended.

His phone beeped, signalling the end of his work day. Maka gave a smile as Soul rummaged around, managing to wrap his gift in his sweater before hopping over the counter again. He was just thinking about Tsubaki and her whereabouts, when the person in question came through the door, accompanied by two tinkling bells.

“Soul,” she said breathlessly. From behind her, another man that Soul didn’t recognize. She seemed stressed -- her windswept hair only proved her march from the parking meter to the store, and the way she pivoted on her heel made Soul think she might fall over from the momentum. “Can I speak to him for a second?”

The man gave a nod, stepping away politely. Tsu leaned in urgently. “It doesn’t look good. There’s a lot of damage on the piano. They said they’d look, but there’s a good chance it’s going. I’m really sorry, Soul, but they said the costs to repair it doesn’t make sense.”

Soul nodded hollowly. Tsubaki gave a smile and a quick nod. She clapped her hands on his shoulder. “And introduce me sometime soon -- but not today. I’d love to stick around, but--” She sent another helpless glance over her shoulder. “Sorry, again.”

“It’s fine, we were just leaving,” Soul said. Tsubaki shot a glance over his shoulder before nodding briskly. And then she was gone, speaking quickly to the man who waited for her, and Soul opened the door, letting Maka leave first.

Once outside, Maka turned with a frown. “What’s going on?”

Soul sighed. “They’re throwing out the piano.”

Alarm shot across her face. “What? _Why_?”

“That’s what I asked. But apparently it’s not just out of tune, it’s too expensive to fix.” Soul fiddled with his sweater-bundle.  “They -- and by that, I mean Tsu -- were hoping to salvage it. But it looks like it may just be dumped at this rate.”

“That’s--” for a moment, Maka seemed at a loss for words. She swallowed thickly.

“Shitty?” Soul supplied. “Yeah. It is.”

Maka seemed distracted the entire way back. She only spoke out once or twice, telling him where to turn and where to go. Finally, they arrived at a small house quashed cozily on the corner of the street. She paused on the doorstep, turning to him. A heartbeat of silence passed, before they simultaneously said each other’s names.

“You first,” Soul said. He was suddenly hyper-aware of the bundle in his arms. Maka gave a small grin, one that didn’t reach her normally sparkling green eyes.

“I just have something I need to tell you. That’s all.”

“And?” Soul raised an eyebrow.

She cracked another, humourless smile. “You first,” she said, nudging forward with her chin.

Soul sighed. He undid the arms of his sweater, rolling his present to his other hand. Maka choked a bit of a laugh. “I told you I’m rubbish with plants,” she murmured.

“I know,” Soul said quietly, before handing the orchids to her. “That’s why they’re fake.”

Realization dawned in her eyes. She took them wordlessly, turning them in her hands, so that the sunlight hit the false white petals. And then, inexplicably, of all things, a small tear welled in her eye.

Panic fluttered at his heart. Oh God, did he do something wrong? Did plastic orchids mean something he didn’t know? Did she think he was mocking her? “Wait, Maka, I-”

“No, I’m really happy.” She brushed the tear away with the back of her hand. “Truly, this is -- very thoughtful of you.” Nowhere in her voice could he hear any sarcasm, any hint that she wasn’t being sincere. Confusion replaced the panic, especially as she turned and unlocked the door to her house.

“What were you going tell me?” He said as she pushed the door open.

“Inside,” Maka said, gesturing past the doorway. And he did.

It was small, well kept, as he expected. The walls were almost charming, with old-timey decor that he’d realized suited her flowy skirts so well. The only things out of place were the wilting plants that peppered the hallways. “Shit, you weren’t kidding.”

“See? Fake plants are kind of the best at the moment,” Maka said, closing the door behind her. “Make yourself at home. Would you like some tea?”

Soul shook his head, instead giving himself the chance to take it all in. It really was charming, like he was stepping into another time or world. He brushed his way down the hallway, glancing into every room. “You live alone?”

“It’s more of a recent thing,” Maka murmured, just half a step behind him. Soul nodded, before he noticed the upright piano tucked into a corner. He turned to her -- and she had a small, devious smile on her face.

“No.”

“How about this?” Maka said. “I’ll play first. Then you play. And I tell you what I want to say.”

His heart fluttered involuntarily at her words, both from the prospect of knowing whatever she hinted at (and if he was right, what he could probably guess), and the nervousness of playing for her. Soul swallowed through it. “How is that fair?”

Maka gave a small lopsided grin before threading her cold fingers through his. Soul felt a pleasurable shiver crawl up his spine, and then he blushed as she pressed it against her heart, just slightly above her breast. And then he balked -- her heart was _racing_. Probably at double the tempo of his, and for a wild moment, he just wanted to pull her in, lace an arm around her back, and just _hold_ her.

She let go first, snapping him back to reality. With a careful elegance, she seated herself at the piano. “I’m not that good,” she warned. “And I really only know one song.”

Soul shrugged. “It’s okay. I want to hear it.”

Maka cracked him a grin before she used a single digit to hold down one note. Slowly, clumsily, her fingers began to skate over the keys. He could sense her hesitations, the not-quite-right technique as she attempted to curl her fingers and maintain the poise that was ingrained within him. It was charming too, to see her eyes fixed in concentration, and it only took another few moments for him to recognize the tune. The one she always hummed.

“My mama taught me this song,” she murmured. “It was a lullaby.” The tempo of the song slowed, before she was left pressing down on a single key. And then she lifted her hands, the echoes of the tune lingering in the air. “She used to say it brought good luck.”

“It’s a pretty melody,” Soul said quietly.

Maka stood up. “And that’s my one trick pony.” She patted the now vacant seat. “You?”

Soul stared. It was right there, and familiar, too. Nervousness danced at his throat, more poignant now than ever. He swallowed through it, dumping himself rather unceremoniously on the seat. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

And then, of all things, like it would be an incentive -- feather-soft lips pressed against his cheek. He turned quickly, abruptly, just catching Maka before she straightened. It was everything like he imagined. Soft, sweet - and he closed his eyes, one hand curling into her ashy locks.

Too soon, Maka pulled away. Her cheeks dusted red and she shifted on her feet. “Is that an answer?”

Soul swore his hands were _trembling_. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, sweep her off his feet. And his music _wasn’t_ that. But she took a step back, and despite his better judgement, he poised his hands over the keys.

And he began to play.

The last piece he’d performed, _Un Sospiro_ , flew from his fingertips. Soul closed his eyes, letting the natural swell of the music overtake him, the crossing of his hands natural, as if he’d never stopped in the first place. As he played, the more the passion rekindled inside him -- soon he was all too aware of his own little hops across the piano bench, the way the pedal whined as he lifted and pressed it with vigour. And then it was over, as he lifted his finger from the last note, and he suddenly remembered his one-person audience, who clapped from the side.

“That was amazing,” Maka said.

“Not all the music I played was like that,” Soul said. He scooted himself from the bench, letting one of his hands slide down her arm before tangling into hers. “Your turn, again. As you promised.”

“As I promised,” Maka repeated, her previous enthusiasm suddenly replaced with nervousness. Almost shyly, she looked up and met his gaze. “Are you sure you want to hear this?” she murmured.

Soul couldn’t stop the small grin that spread across his lips. He didn’t have to try as hard this time -- she reached up, too, as he leaned down, pressing a kiss gently against her. Some of the tension loosed from her shoulders, and her other hand reached up to curl around his neck, pulling her closer.

Again, too soon, she tipped her head back down, breaking the kiss. “I guess that’s the answer.”

Maka took a deep, long sigh. She reached across the piano, plucking an object from it, but Soul paid no mind. His heart was racing, from playing the piano, from the kissing, from _her_ , for him to mind. His head buzzed with ideas and speculation, but the words that come from her mouth were amongst the last he expected.

“Soul, do you believe in time travel?”


	7. Chapter 7

 

“W-What?” Soul stammered.

If it were anyone, literally _anyone_ , else, Soul would’ve burst out laughing. Hopefully with the speaker. But Maka was dead serious, her eyes staring hard into his.

Soul shrugged. “I mean, it’s never been proven, I guess. So…”

“What if I can prove it?” Maka murmured.

This time, Soul froze. He slid his gaze down to the object in her hands -- a picture. He leaned in. There was Maka, as a younger girl, holding the hands of two people he didn’t recognize. Her parents. It was a nice picture, despite the sepia tones, and then he noticed what she’d probably meant to show him-- the date.

He glanced back at her, but her hard expression told him that it wasn’t a joke. Not an elaborate rouse, not a silly prank. His throat was suddenly dry. “How?” he barely managed.

Maka sipped a breath. Wordlessly, she lead him to a couch and he wordlessly followed. Truthfully, he felt a bit numb. But the more he dwelled upon it, the more things began to fit together, little by little. Her lack of cellphone. Her seeming disconnect to the world. He thought her to be quirky, a hipster who probably hated any progress in society. His record shop was for hipsters, for God’s sake.

Maka sat down first, and Soul followed. She folded her hands across her lap. “You wanted to know how, right? Promise not to laugh,” she threw in.

Soul blinked. Did she honestly think he would _laugh_? Instead, he nodded, and Maka gave a brief, soulless smile. “My mama used to own the studio that is now your record store. I’ve never played piano there, but I was taught. When my mom left my papa, she sold her business and the building. Before my mama left my life for good, I decided to play the piano they kept in her shop. Just one last time, you know? Before everything changed. Imagine my surprise when the one tune my mama ever taught me brought me -- well, here.”

“I don’t understand,” Soul murmured.

“I ended up in your storage room,” Maka said frankly. “I freaked out, played the melody again, and ended up back in my own time. But not before you saw me.”

Soul blinked. _Saw_ her? Maka frowned a little. “Honestly, I don’t understand it. Any of it. Why that piano, and only that one? Why that melody, and only that one? All I know is, I saw you -- and you saw me. I came back the next day, and the day after that. Around the same time, to see if you could still see me. And you could, every time. But after I left the shop, and came back in after your shift, the cash -- Tsubaki? -- never noticed me slip into the storage closet, that I never came out of it, either.”

She shuffled her feet. “It was later that the sell date for the studio finally came around. At that point, I played the song, and I stayed. I just didn’t want to be close to my papa, and with my mama gone, I thought I’d spend a few days in your world, or whatever it was. And then I understood it wasn’t a different universe -- but the future. But what was supposed to be a few days, turned into, well, this.”

Maka sighed. “I soon learned something, though. The universe knows I shouldn’t be here. I think there’s something compensating for me being here -- the plants. If I’m close to them long enough, they wilt.”

The dying plants, her happiness with the fake ones, and the little flower that he’s replaced five times now beside the cash -- it all made sense. Maka’s foot shuffles only grew stronger, more melancholy. “I guess I knew I was always on a timeline. But I thought I had more -- but the plants die faster now. And then with the piano being dumped… it’s only a matter of time.”

Soul blinked, trying to process everything. It somehow made _sense_. Things were fitting in, little by little. If it wasn’t so crazy, so farfetched, he wouldn’t have accepted it as logical. Why Tsubaki seemed oblivious to the fact that Maka was there, earlier in the day. Why Blackstar startled the wrong person.

“And Soul, I’m going to go back.”

It was those words that roused him from his thoughts the most. “What?” he managed.

Maka’s green eyes bore into his. There was sadness in them, but also a strong conviction, a stubbornness Soul had a shallow feeling he wouldn’t be able to fight. “I’m going to go back. I know it’ll still be there, because it’s still here now. But with the piano being trashed, and the life I left behind, and the fact only you can see me… I love you Soul, I truly do. But it’s not enough for me to stay.”

There were so many emotions, so many _thoughts_ , so much he wanted to think about. But he couldn’t parse them properly. It was so much, _so much_ , but the urgency in her voice made it all the worse. God, he _knew_ from the beginning that this was probably a bad decision, that falling in love was a mistake.

“None of this makes any sense.”

Maka gave a hollow laugh. “Tell me about it. You’d think sixty years in the future, and maybe they could explain this.”

Soul slumped back. So many questions swirled in his mind, so much he wanted to know. One of her small hands rested against her thigh, almost lackadaisically, before she gave him a smile. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m wondering how you told your parents you were leaving,” Soul found himself saying. Maka gave a small chuckle at that, as if she expected nothing less, though Soul himself was surprised. It was true, though, he _did_ wonder…

“I told them I was studying abroad. I just needed an out. A way they wouldn’t contact me. I forced my papa to agree to give me time to adjust, before writing to me.” She bit her lip. “And he’s quite aware of our strained relationship, so the months of no response _shouldn’t_ be too odd.” And then she turned to him, surprise in her eyes. “You’re not mad?”

Soul paused. _Was_ he mad? How could he be mad at her, as if it was somehow her fault? He loved her, and he’d probably always love her, he realized, and that fact didn’t make him _mad._ He shook his head, and a smile grew on her face.

They sat there in silence, just on that couch, thinking. Eventually, Soul’s hand finally found its way in hers. At some point, her head rested against his shoulder. And they stayed there a while, breathing in synchronicity, simply thinking to themselves.

Finally, Soul lifted his head, feeling her startle slightly beside him. “Maka?”

“Mm?”

“Can you teach me that song?”

* * *

The next few days were different. Maka had weaved the fake orchid into her hair, keeping it on her when she came into the store. They still talked, as if the timer on their days together was nonexistent, and despite everything, he wasn’t mad. Wasn’t sad. Soul just wanted to cherish the time he had with her.

The only time their numbered days was mentioned came when he helped adjust the sagging flower in her tresses. “It’ll come back with me,” she said quietly. “Something to remember you by.”

As if he could forget her. “And that song,” Soul murmured. “I have that, too.”

The rest of their conversations were nothing like that since, and they had returned to their comfortable debates about music and literature. Only now, her old-timey knowledge made a lot more sense in context.

The days folded together, and soon, the day came around.

“The piano’s gonna go tomorrow,” Soul murmured.

Maka’s hand rested gently in his, and she tilted her head back, her hair spilling over the surface of the counter. Soul reached and adjusted the flower, securing it back in place. “I know,” Maka said quietly. “But let’s just focus on the time we have left.”

Soul nodded. And their chats continued, as effortless as before, and when she finally pushed herself from the table, his heart clenched. She pressed a kiss against his forehead, for comfort, against her cheek, for good luck, and then his lips: I love you. Her fingers laced into his, before they gently, so gently, left. And instead of going to the exit, where she normally would, Maka made a sharp left, and gently closed the storage room door behind her.

* * *

It was odd, Soul pondered, as he sat at a cafe across the street.

He wouldn’t see her again.

It was odd because he was _numb_ to it all. The logical part of Soul’s brain had compartmentalized it all, shelved the information and filed it away appropriately. But then the emotional part in his brain said otherwise. And it said a _lot_ , long after his coffee had turned cold, and he drank it anyways.

By the time Tsubaki left the shop, he’d made up his mind.

His heart rate had tripled by the time he returned to his apartment. In the time between his shift and Tsubaki’s, he had finally processed it all. What it meant. What he’d lost. It was still on his mind as he unlocked the door to his apartment. The _modern art_ had almost spilled over to their shoe mat, the culprit draped over the couch horizontally this time.

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” was the automatic response. Ringing shots of gunfire came from their TV, before a loud curse, and the controller (the third one this month) found itself on the floor. Blackstar glanced over the couch, waving a hand, then one to Tsubaki behind him. “What’s up? Why’s ‘Baki here?”

His manager shrugged as she politely placed her shoes beside their pizza box sculpture. “Soul said he had news.”

Blackstar raised an eyebrow. “News?”

Soul looked from his best friend, to his manager. “I think I’m gonna go for my Masters of Performance after all.”

Blackstar’s jaw dropped as Tsubaki positively beamed. “That’s wonderful, Soul!” She chirped. And then her smile faltered. “Does that mean you’ll be quitting the shop?”

Soul drew a chair, trying not to knock down Blackstar’s careful work. Settling in it, he finally took a steady breath in, trying to calm his racing heart. 

“I’m studying abroad.”


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stick around for one more chapter after this for art and an extended author's note!

 

Tsubaki would never admit it publically, but Soul was right -- the shifts _were_ boring.

Truthfully, she missed him. He didn’t come when they dumped the piano, and he hadn’t written back in the month he’d been gone. She was working, and Blackstar had another errand to run during his flight. But she already said her goodbyes that night, and the hug he gave her was one of the sweetest ones she’d ever received, even from Blackstar.

Still, she mused as she fiddled with the small, white plant beside her, life goes on.

At least the plants stopped dying.

But watering the plants gave her something to do. And now it was getting boring. Tsubaki considered texting Blackstar, maybe seeing if he wanted to eat something across the street when she had a break. Her phone was in her hand, even, and she was just thumbing over to his contact, when twin bells twinkled beside her.

Tsubaki shot straight up, looking around, before her vision settled on the tween who’d stumbled in. She had pretty hair, with orchids woven in like a flower halo around her head. With a twinge of fondness, she remembered how Soul used to react to such customers. _Hipster window shoppers,_ he’d said once with disdain in his voice.

To her, anyone who entered was a potential customer. “Hello,” Tsubaki called.

The tween blinked up at her -- and Tsubaki had never seen such emerald eyes.

“Hi,” she said timidly.

And then it struck Tsubaki-- how similar her jawline was to Soul’s. If she squinted, she might’ve even seen the same nose.

Tsubaki ducked around the counter. “Can I help you?”

The tween narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “I’m actually looking for someone. Are you Tsubaki?”

She blinked. “I am.”

The tween lit up, almost radiantly. “Perfect! I was told that you’re really good at picking out music.”

Who had _ever_ said that, Tsubaki wondered. Well, there was only one person, the very person she’d once offered a job to. “I could show you some music, if you’d like? Do you like jazz?”

The tween pondered it. “It’s my grandparent’s favourites,” she said.

She couldn’t help it; a warm smile spread on Tsubaki’s lips. She made a gesture with her hand, the tween falling into step behind her. They flipped through a few albums, past _CCC_ and _Lights_. Eventually, the tween took the job upon herself. When Tsubaki took a step back, she began to wonder exactly where the _green_ came from.  She suddenly recalled the day of the inspection, when Soul had slipped up his words, when she only saw empty space beyond his shoulder.

It was still on her mind after the tween had selected two records and brought them to the cash. The tween thanked her profusely, saying hastily that it was an anniversary gift for her grandparents. “They spoke fondly of this place,” she added.

Tsubaki grinned, folding her hands together on the counter. “Really? You should introduce me sometime.”

The tween beamed back. “I think they’d like that.”


	9. Art + Extended Author's Note

Reminder that all of this gorgeous art belongs to Mrsashketchum. You can find the tumblr post [here](http://mrsashketchum.tumblr.com/post/147596884053)!

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was really fun to work on Bloom this Reverb season! Between this one and the other, **In Perpetuity** , I was able to strike a distinct contrast between the two works. I generally write more serious fiction when it comes to Soul Eater, and I'm sure you can tell that the beginning of Bloom was approached to be done similarly. However, the style shifted and it sat quite comfortably in the humour territory. I think it comes from Soul's point of view; he's too funny and too snarky to have a fic be so serious all the time! 

There were a lot of fun changes that MAK and I discussed while writing and plotting. I think you'd be surprised to know how many iterations and revisions this story went through! Eventually we had to cut some side characters and some additional small plot details, otherwise this fic would easily be twice as long. Another thing we didn't really touch upon is that Maka _literally_ glows. But it's not super important to the plot, so I guess Soul never found out that his lovesick vision isn't just ... him being lovesick, haha. 

 If you've made it this far, thank you again for reading! Hope to see you again for Resbang or the next Reverb! 


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